


Meatballs

by maydei



Series: Stanford Stove [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Big Brother Lucifer, College Student Castiel, Domestic, First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sam at Stanford, Spaghetti & Meatballs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 09:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2383472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/pseuds/maydei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Cas share a house off-campus at Stanford. Cas' older brother makes a visit. Sam and Lucifer make dinner and idle conversation, among other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meatballs

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of [this gifset](http://misha-collins-angel-of-thursday.tumblr.com/post/98718615582/samifer-au-where-lucifer-makes-a-surprise). I couldn't resist. Will probably end up being a verse based around student!Sam and older!professional!Lucifer cooking together. 
> 
> If any more gifsets surface that stroke my muse and give me feels (anything that involves young!puppy!jared and jedikiah!mark), they'll probably promptly go into this verse. So yeah. Also kind of in celebration of me almost breaking 900 followers on Tumblr. ([I'm at 899!! Come follow me!!](http://maydei.tumblr.com))

“Cas!” Sam called as he let himself into the house they shared. The door squeaked almost unbearably; Sam winced and made a mental note to email the landlord to see about getting that fixed or oiled or _something._ “Cas? You here?”

“He’s in the studio.”

Sam startled and rounded the corner into the living room, only to find Cas’ older brother sipping a mug of coffee at his seat on their well-worn couch. He broke into a relieved smile—Lucifer was a welcome presence. Since Sam had started at Stanford and gotten assigned Castiel as a roommate last year, his best friend had told him about his brother’s generous sponsorship of his education. In fact, without Lucifer’s financial assistance, they probably wouldn’t have been able to afford the rent for the house they lived in; being off-campus was a boon to two boys that preferred quiet nights to loud parties in the dorms. 

“Hey,” Sam said, set his bag down on the floor, and kicked off his shoes beside it. He rolled his shoulders; sophomore year’s workload was even more intense than the year before, and for Sam to keep his full-ride scholarship, he had to keep his GPA above a 3.5. Easier said than done, especially for pre-law. “You gonna be here for a while?”

Lucifer quirked a brow. “Why? Do you need me to leave? Have a date, perhaps?”

Sam snorted quietly. “Yeah, right. I just meant, you know. You can take your coat off.” 

Lucifer looked down at himself like he hadn’t even realized he was still wearing his pea coat. “Oh. I suppose you’re right.” He set his mug down and his hands went to the buttons, only to pause as he looked Sam over. “You’ve gotten taller. Have you gotten taller?”

Sam flushed, embarrassed. Nineteen years old and still growing. Of course, it had been almost a month since he’d seen Lucifer last. Work kept him busy; he did something involving scientific research that he was never really clear on, but apparently made him more than enough money to financially support his “rebellious” younger brother, who had an “unconventional” love of the arts. The fact that Cas was ridiculously talented aside, Sam could understand a less-than-supportive family. He was glad that Cas had at least one person that had his back. He deserved it. 

But sometime in the past year, Lucifer had decided to take Sam under his wing, too. He had no family, he said; no wife and no kids, and supposedly no interest in either.  _Married to his work_ , he said. Which, for a man pushing forty seemed pretty uncommon, especially for one as admittedly good-looking as Lucifer. But family was important to him, and those that were good to his family, he was good to in turn. He had initially taken to Sam because of Sam’s kindness and support of Castiel. Somewhere in the months that passed, his appreciation for Sam had become more personal; for Sam’s wit, his kind smile, and his studious nature. 

Sam didn’t understand it, himself. He supposed that Lucifer just had a penchant for taking care of lost, lonely things. 

“I don’t. I dunno,” Sam answered, and rubbed at the back of his neck.

“I think you have,” Lucifer replied. He looked Sam up and down once more, then nodded to himself. “We’re almost the same height. You must be well over six feet by now. Were your parents tall?”

Sam swallowed. Lucifer rarely asked about Sam’s parents. He shrugged, a one-shoulder noncommittal gesture. “My dad was—is. And my brother. But my mom, I don’t... I don’t know.”

“Ah.” Lucifer reached out to lay a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I didn’t think before I spoke. Apologies, Sam.”

“It’s okay.” Sam turned away and headed for the kitchen, more than ready for a change of subject. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

“I could eat,” Lucifer agreed. “Are you cooking?”

Sam made a noise of agreement as he crossed the threshold into the small kitchen and started rooting through the cupboards. Pasta, rice, bread crumbs, a variety of canned vegetables... he moved to the fridge instead. Milk, parmesan cheese. Jarred minced garlic. Ground hamburger. He could make spaghetti, he supposed. 

“How do you feel about pasta?” Sam asked.

“Depends,” Lucifer answered, his voice distant. “Do you burn water?”

Sam laughed. “Uh, no. But I’m not exactly Cordon Bleu material, either.”

“Let me rephrase. Do you cook better than Castiel?”

Sam choked on his spit. Castiel was a horrendous cook. Even microwaveable macaroni and cheese, which Sam thought was the most fail-safe food in the world, suffered at his hands. Anything involving a toaster or an oven, forget it. Sam had banned him from the kitchen in the house before he’d ever tried to use it. He was allowed entry for cereal and milk, and for granola bars and other pre-made snacks. That was it. 

“Much better,” Sam said around a laugh. “My brother could do sandwiches and microwave stuff, but once I was old enough, cooking was my thing. Mostly because Dean and Dad were out on... jobs, and—” Sam cut himself off. He probably shouldn’t mention the days and weeks he was left alone at a time, with a twenty or two to feed himself and get himself back and forth from school. Even if those days were behind him now, Lucifer didn’t need to know about that. Didn’t _want_ to know about that. No one ever _really_ wanted to know someone’s sad family history, especially when they already had one of their own. 

Sam swallowed and continued. “But, yeah. I cook. Enough for spaghetti and meatballs, anyway. As long as that’s, like, something you’ll eat?”

“That sounds perfect, Sam,” Lucifer said, and Sam startled at the sound of the man right behind him. He whirled, eyes wide and fists ready, and Lucifer responded with a surprised look of his own, his hands held up between them. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Sam said, heart still beating a mile a minute. How could he be so out of practice that he wouldn’t _hear_ —

Movement caught his eye and he looked down. Lucifer’s toes wiggled inside a pair of thick socks. Sam looked up again and let out a breath, slowly lowering his hands back to his sides. “You took your shoes off.”

Lucifer also glanced down at his feet, then back at Sam. “I noticed that you had. This is your home, Sam. I was following your lead.”

“Oh,” Sam said. He thought about it for a moment. “I just. Sorry I freaked out.” Suddenly, he felt embarrassed. He hid his face behind a hand. “God. I’m sorry.”

“May I touch you?”

Sam looked at Lucifer, who seemed uncertain, hands outstretched toward Sam. He couldn’t imagine what for, but against his better judgement, Sam nodded. 

Lucifer laid his hands on Sam’s shoulders, the broad spans of his palms making gentle pressure that had Sam relaxing when he didn’t even know he was tense. Flustered, Sam wanted his own space, but the offer of human contact was so unfamiliar and  _kind_ that Sam couldn’t help taking half a step closer, enough to feel the proximity of Lucifer’s body radiating comfort. 

“It’s okay,” Lucifer said then, his voice low and soothing, his thumbs skimming across Sam’s shoulder blades, back and forth. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I would never hurt you, Sam.”

Sam ducked his head and nodded. He knew that, he did. Lucifer had never been anything but kind and courteous to him. He didn’t know why his hunter’s reflexes were still so strong, so hair-trigger sensitive. He was safe here, he knew that. He did.

His downturned gaze was drawn to buttons—more specifically, the buttons on Lucifer’s shirt. His coat had also been removed, leaving him in a perfectly pressed black button-down, tucked into his black slacks. Even his socks were black. 

“Are you in mourning?” Sam asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Mortified, he tried to take them back. “Sorry. I don’t. You’re just.”

But Lucifer was laughing. Really laughing, his hands lifting from Sam’s shoulders to fold over his belly. 

Sam flushed and wished for nothing more than to sink into the floor.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t mean to laugh at you,” he said, a smile still pulling at his mouth. “My associates ask me the same thing—every day, it seems like. No, I’m not. I suppose I just don’t have a very color-diverse wardrobe.”

“I mean,” Sam stammered. “It’s not _bad,_ I just. Even your socks. I’m gonna shut up now.” Sam turned back to the cabinets and hastily reached for the things he’d need, and cursed himself in his mind for his big mouth. 

“It’s okay,” Lucifer said, and from his tone, he sounded as though he were still smiling. He reached past Sam to help pull the ingredients down to the counter. “No need to be embarrassed, Sam. Your curiosity and lack of filters are charming.”

Sam proceeded in silence, unsure of how to respond, even as he moved to take things out of the fridge. 

“I do have one question,” Lucifer said then. Sam turned to see him crouching, looking into the lower cabinets and removing a large pan. “You may not want to answer; that’s perfectly okay. I just thought I’d ask.” He looked up to Sam for confirmation, and when Sam nodded once, he asked, “Army Rangers or Marines?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

Lucifer reached up to put the pan on the small electric stovetop, and reached back in to remove a deep skillet and lid. He closed the cabinet door with his knee as he set it beside the other on one of the dormant electric burners, then turned the dial to preheat the oven. “When I startled you, you reacted; it looked like a combat form. The fact that you’re here says you’re not military yourself, and your lack of military ID—but your father. Was he a Ranger or a Marine?”

Sam’s lips parted; Lucifer had picked all that up just from  _startling_ Sam? “Marine,” he answered without pause. “How did you—?”

“My father was, too, before he died,” Lucifer answered, making himself busy as he brought the large pan to the tiny sink and started to fill it with water. “He always made sure that Michael, myself, and our sister Raphael could take care of ourselves. Of course, by the time Gabriel, Castiel, and Anna were born, his military edge had softened some. But I still know it when I see it.” He returned the pan to the stove, then glanced in the small cabinets above it. He frowned. “Salt?” 

“Side cabinet,” Sam answered.

“Ah,” Lucifer replied as he opened the spice cabinet and fished out the large container of iodized salt, pouring some into the palm of his hand and adding it to the water. He then handed the jug to Sam. “For the meatballs?” He asked.

“Yeah. Right.” Sam turned and made himself busy, bringing down a large mixing bowl and dumping the ground beef and breadcrumbs in, and adding a splash of milk and two cracked eggs. “Can you pass the, um. Hmm. Basil, and the onion powder, and the granulated garlic. And the pepper grinder.”

Sam accepted each as they came, eyeing the portions without measuring before he closed the containers and handed them back, keeping only the pepper grinder beside him on the counter. He tugged up the sleeves of his shirt and sweater, then reached into the bowl to hand-mix the meatball concoction. 

Lucifer leaned back against the counter to watch with a benign, mildly intrigued smile. “I haven’t watched anyone cook for a long time,” he said after a moment. “Most chefs don’t appreciate the company.”

Sam scoffed, but with good humor. “I’m not exactly a chef,” he said. “And, I dunno. I got used to my brother hanging around, always looking over my shoulder and asking questions. We kind of lived in each others’ pockets for most of our lives.” Sam’s voice drifted off, leaving him with a sense of loneliness he hadn’t felt in a while, and a longing for his brother’s company. He missed Dean almost every day. 

“That can be difficult,” Lucifer said, an open-ended statement that left Sam room to agree or disagree—truly, Lucifer was an intelligent conversationalist. Better than Castiel, anyway, whose blunt honesty and lack of tact was... refreshing, at first, but could become exhausting over the course of a long conversation. 

Sam hummed and considered how best to proceed. “Yes and no. Dean always looked out for me and took care of me, but he was my brother, too. We didn’t fight that often; not like me and my dad fought. One of the only real disagreements we had was when I told him I wanted to go to school.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t go, himself.”

“Nah,” Sam replied, lost in the memories and the simple motion of mixing the bowl’s contents. “He got his G.E.D, but he never went to college. He could’ve, he just... never tried to leave Dad. And I couldn’t do that. I wanted more than living out of a car. _This_ ,” Sam said, looking up, toward the cabinets and the sink and back to Lucifer with a helpless expression. “A house with my stuff in it. Where I actually _own_ pots and pans and tupperware and a _potato peeler_ , you know? And I have my own towels, and an _address,_ and—” Sam made a frustrated sound as he removed his hands and went to wash up at the sink. 

Lucifer didn’t push. That was one of the things Sam liked about him. He could be patient, could wait for Sam to come back around without trying to guess or assume anything. 

Sam wiped his hands on a towel before he looked back to Lucifer, only to find the man with a soft, understanding expression that Sam had never seen on him before. It wasn’t pity or anything that would’ve made Sam angry, it was just... like he got it. Really got it.

“Having a home is not an unreasonable thing to want, Sam,” Lucifer said, even as he rolled up his own sleeves and moved into Sam’s vacated space before the mixing bowl. He glanced at the skillet. “Do you want to put some oil in that and warm it up?”

Sam did just that, drizzling olive oil into the skillet and covering it, and turning one of the front burners to medium-high heat. He then fished out his battered roll of tin foil and laid down a sheet for Lucifer to place the meatballs on as he shaped them. 

The man made a sound of thanks, then continued. “It’s important for everyone and everything to have a home to return to, for better or for worse. A safe space, if you will. Even for the most restless humans, Sam, routine is a requirement. To lack that familiarity would wear on anyone. Humans without a stable home environment will seek out touchstones; objects that they become reliant on for comfort. It’s a basic coping mechanism. To want more than that for yourself, Sam—it’s reasonable. Expected, even.”

Sam thought of the Impala and Dean’s amulet and silver ring, and thought maybe Lucifer made a lot of sense. But when Sam thought about an object that maybe  _he_ relied on, he couldn’t come up with anything. Just a person; just Dean. But now, now Sam  _had_ a house to come home to, and a friend to break the silence in Castiel. He had a routine and  _peers_ and familiar faces that he recognized from week to week, month to month, from last year to this year. And he  _loved_ that. 

“My dad didn’t think so,” Sam said in reply, the only thing he really _could_ say. “He said I was selfish. Stupid. Told me not to come back.”

“Your dad is an idiot,” Lucifer said, and his voice was sharp. 

Sam looked at him, shocked. 

Lucifer grimaced, but continued. “Sorry. I don’t know anything about your dad, Sam. And I’m in no position to judge, really. But I’d like to think I know you a little bit. I know how you treated my younger brother when he had no one. I know that you’re kind and generous, and certainly not  _selfish._ You’re hard-working and extraordinarily intelligent. Your father— _he_ sounds like the stupid one.” Lucifer frowned at the meatballs, despite their identical size and shape. The picture he made was almost comical. “But who am I to decide—except for my two doctorates and published papers in hereditary genetic psychology and the human mind, and in instinctual home-making in adolescent and young adults from the dawn of humanity to modern times.” Lucifer’s scowl looked almost petulant.

Sam couldn’t help but to laugh, just a little. He didn’t know what to say to that. But Lucifer solved that problem for him when he shaped and placed the last of the meatballs on the foil, and said, “You can go ahead and brown those, now. Should be hot enough.”

Sam lifted the lid from the skillet and, sure enough, the oil was sizzling and steaming. Sam placed the meatballs into the pan with care not to crowd them, and Lucifer went to wash his hands in the sink. When he was done, the two traded places, and Lucifer took custody of one of Sam’s wooden spatulas to turn them as Sam lathered his hands with Dawn dish soap and rinsed. 

He then found a small sauce pan which he set on the counter, and made himself busy opening a can of roasted tomatoes. Sam drained the juice into the sink before he laid the tomatoes out on his cutting board and diced them, then gave them company with a small onion he found in the fridge. By the time he had finished, Lucifer was just finishing browning the meatballs, and covered the skillet with the lid and put the whole thing inside the oven for them to bake. 

Sam smiled to himself as he shooed Lucifer away from the stove, then put the sauce pan on the vacated burner and added a splash of olive oil to the bottom. “Can you grab the minced garlic from the counter; in the jar?” he asked. “Half a spoon should be fine. This’ll heat up pretty quick.”

“Spoons are where?” Lucifer asked, glancing into several drawers and coming up empty. 

“Sorry, next to the sink,” Sam answered. “Just one of the normal ones.” Lucifer did as Sam asked and handed over a half-spoon of minced garlic, which Sam dropped into the heated oil, quickly followed by the diced onions. He left the tomatoes on the cutting board for the time being, and handed the spoon back to Lucifer. “You can just toss that in the sink with the meatball bowl and the spatula. We can wash up after. I’d put some soap and hot water in there for now, though, just so it doesn’t dry on there. Dry egg is a bitch to clean.”

Lucifer deferred to Sam’s judgement with a faint smile, testing the water with a finger until he deemed it warm enough, then placing the utensils in the soapy bowl to soak. He returned to lean against an unoccupied section of the counter, watching Sam saute the onion and garlic together. 

“Excuse you,” Sam murmured good-naturedly. “We’re not done here, thanks. You can pass me things.” 

“As you wish,” Lucifer replied with a mocking half-bow, and switched sides so he was closer to the spice cabinet. “What do you need?”

“Bay leaves, oregano, dried parsley,” Sam rattled off. “One of the springs of rosemary from the fridge. That should be okay for now.” As Lucifer retrieved, Sam added the tomatoes to the pot, then followed them with the oregano and the parsley. He frowned. “I wish I had white wine.”

“I’ll bring some next time,” Lucifer promised. 

Sam turned, eyebrow raised. “That’s illegal.”

“I trust you,” Lucifer replied simply. 

Sam ducked his head, strangely flattered. “If you say so,” he mumbled. “Who says there’ll be a next time?”

“I hope there is,” Lucifer said, soft and earnest, and Sam felt his cheeks flush. 

“You—” Sam cut himself off and fidgeted in place, searching for words. Then, emboldened, he asked, “Why are you here?”

Lucifer paused in his digging through the fridge in search of rosemary and turned to Sam. “I meant to talk to Castiel. I was going to wait for a while to see if he’d come back.”

Sam breathed out through his nose. It made sense, of course. He didn’t expect anything different. 

“But spending time with you is always a pleasure, Sam,” Lucifer continued. “I find you to be excellent conversation and company. Better than most of my colleagues, even. Here.” He handed the rosemary over the fridge door and closed it, then returned to lean against the counter beside Sam. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, and Sam could feel the heat from Lucifer’s body radiating out to warm his shoulder. As always, his proximity was as intimidating as it was intoxicating—and frustrating. “I like you, Sam. I envy your unwavering kindness. I like that you are comfortable enough with me to tell me about your family, even if the subject is painful. And I’m glad that you allow me to share this with you—here, in your home.”

“You helped us get it,” Sam said quietly. “I mean, without your help, there’s no way—even with the extra money I get from the school that’s supposed to go toward room and board and my meal plan. You’re the reason we’ve got all this.” He glanced around, then back to Lucifer, and shrugged, embarrassed. “This is the least I can do. You’ve been so nice, especially to me, and you didn’t have to be, you know? I’m just Cas’ friend, but you’ve helped me out so much, too. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Lucifer said, dismissive, and leaned close enough to let his shoulder brush Sam’s. “I have no use for the money I’ve made. I do what interests me; the financial aspect is a plus. My success is based entirely on luck and timing. To be able to help you and Castiel is all I want. You’re motivated, intelligent, and dedicated. And you are not _just_ anything—you are Castiel’s _best_ friend. His _only_ friend that has stayed by his side in quite a long time. You brought him out of his shell—only now am I starting to hear other names in conversation from him. Balthazar, Alfie, Meg; you helped him get to the point where he could _make_ other friends. If anyone owes anyone _anything_ , here, we should discuss what _I_ owe _you_ for having such an impact on Castiel’s life.” 

Sam swallowed, mouth dry and face heated, and glanced at Lucifer. His open, earnest expression made Sam’s knees feel weak. “I. I don’t know what to say,” Sam admitted after a long stretch of silence. 

Lucifer’s smile was tiny and genuine, but after a moment faded as he held Sam’s eyes. The warmth of the kitchen and the sound of the sizzling stove gave way as he leaned closer, slowly and steadily, until his mouth met Sam’s in a careful kiss. 

Sam didn’t even think about it when his hands left the spatula to rest his fingertips on Lucifer’s jaw. The water in the tomatoes would last for long enough to Sam to savor this properly. 

Because, whether anyone else would approve or not, Sam wanted this. Didn’t even know he’d wanted it until he had it, had  _him_ , had Lucifer’s lower lip sucked into his mouth and those hands resting on Sam’s waist. Thought about it in passing but never thought, never even  _dreamed_ it would be something he could have. 

If he  _could_ have it.

“Wait,” Sam said pulling his mouth free with a slick sound. He could feel the heat in his face and his hands shaking, but he needed to know. “This is like. A real thing to you, right?” Sam asked.

Lucifer blinked, still looking slightly dazed by Sam’s enthusiastic reaction and sudden about-face. “Yes? I don’t really know what you’re asking. But I like you, Sam. I want to know you better than just what Castiel tells me about you.”

“You want to date me,” Sam affirmed, searching Lucifer’s face for confirmation. “That’s what you’re saying, right? Even though I’m like half your age?”

Lucifer frowned. “Compatibility knows no bounds. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“Nope,” Sam was quick to deny. “If you’re for real and it isn’t gonna bother you that I’m Cas’ friend or something—”

“I trust his taste in company,” Lucifer replied, and curled his fingers in Sam’s off-white sweater and tugged him back into a kiss. 

Sam laughed into Lucifer’s mouth, pleased and relieved and gut full of butterflies. Elated but reassured, Sam let his frenzy mellow into the careful intimacy of their lips meeting over and over in slow kisses. He let his hands wander up Lucifer’s shoulders until his fingers found the soft strands of Lucifer’s hair that, once he touched, he couldn’t seem to stop. 

At least until Lucifer was the one to backtrack with a pleased rumble and said, “You should probably stir that.”

Sam groaned but did as instructed with a smile, dodging out of Lucifer’s careful hold in order to stir the sauce and taste it. Then, in a flirty testing of the waters, he held the spoon up for Lucifer to taste from, which he did with a smile and without complaint. 

“It’s good,” Lucifer said. “Could definitely be improved by a decent wine.” 

“Consider that your entry fee for next time you come over, then,” Sam said with a grin, and reached for a potholder. He then pushed Lucifer away from the stove with a nudge from his hip, only to extract the baking meatballs and pour the sauce into the sizzling pan. He covered it again and replaced it to let the flavors marry and the meatballs finish up, handed the empty sauce pan to Lucifer to put into the sink, and brought the enormous pot of seasoned water to the hot burner to come to a boil. 

Dinner was all but accomplished, but Sam was having a craving of a different sort.

“Come on,” he said to Lucifer, holding his hand out expectantly. 

With raised eyebrows and an intrigued expression, Lucifer slipped his hand into Sam’s.

“Let’s go make out on the couch.”

 

 


End file.
